


The Ninetales

by shinyvulpix82



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Pokemon Fanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 05:03:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14301375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyvulpix82/pseuds/shinyvulpix82
Summary: The story of a long-lived and tired stranger.





	The Ninetales

This story is very old, but my part in it is very new.

 

He was born in a shrine centuries ago. I’m not sure when he evolved, when the bright stone changed the color of his fur from peppery red to ivory white, but it was a very long time ago. His fur is not white anymore, though. All Ninetales’ fur eventually changes to pale gold, given enough time. And he had plenty of time.

He never really noticed the years going by. He had no reason to. He and the other Ninetales would stay until they were called elsewhere. Ambassadors, representatives, warnings—whatever the monks of the shrine saw fit to call them, so they would be. Except…except fewer were called. Fewer stayed. Both Pokémon and men became fewer and fewer. I did not understand when he first told me. So he explained that some left through the red gates, long shattered and discolored. Others left by the garden, and rested under the pine and cherry trees. In that sense, he supposed they never really left. Maybe that is why he stayed, even though he was alone. He never really realized he was alone for the longest time. He had gotten used to the lack of offerings at the shrine. Hunting the rodents was always a pastime of his, so the gifts were something extra for him, not a necessity. He missed having his fur brushed, listening to the quiet murmurs of lectures, and enjoying the bustle of festivals, but they faded so gently, he did not notice the loss at first. It was a day like this, when the air was cold and the sun was bright and the air was filled with cherry blossoms. He looked about, and whispered “I am alone.” That startled him, that whisper. A whisper is a secret, shared between two or more. But it had been years since he had whispered.

He had no one to keep anything from.

He had not for a long time.

For the first time in his life, he felt lonely.

For the first time in his life, he felt old.

With no one to stay with him, he waited, although he did not know why.

Age has never gripped Ninetales like it has humans. Its grasp is strange over them. Humans crumble and break with time. Ninetales become strong. They become the kitsune, the thousand-year foxes with the wisdom and power of their many years. First, he noticed he could lift things without touching them. Then he found he could hide his appearance through the cover of another. When he did this (at least, when he did this so I could see) he took the appearance of a man in rich but antiquated clothes. His hair was long, smooth, and white. His face was almost—-almost—too pretty to be a man’s. But his eyes were old. They had seen too much to match the face he hid behind. After hid learned to hide himself, he learned many more abilities. Sometimes he would make the ruins appear filled with snow or blossoms or water. Sometimes he would cover the area with fog. And sometimes—-oftentimes—he would fill the place with memories of the people and Pokémon he had known. They made his would seem less lonely and empty, even though he knew it was an illusion with no more depth than sunlight. With no more warmth than wind.

It was during one of these times that I met him, not long ago.

I had gotten lost in those woods, in a forest with as many stories as leaves. My group was looking for me and I was looking for them. I was scared. When I heard the cries and voices of people and Pokémon, I hoped I was found. I cried when I realized I was still alone. He recognized my loneliness, even though he did not have my fear.

At least, he never admitted it.

He came to me though, when my tears were falling from my eyes. Pokémon do not weep like humans do. That is our own privilege. But that does not mean they do not understand. He sat with me. He was noble and glittered like a gold ring in firelight, but the beautiful red scarf that once announced his status in the shrine was ragged. It started to cut into his neck long ago. I cut it free. I used the first aid kit from my pack to treat the wounds, and I wrapped my own blue scarf around his neck to keep them clean.

Then he spoke to me. He told me everything I have told you. He asked me to. He asked me to share this story. His story. Their story. So the people and Pokémon he waited for would be remembered and never forgotten.

The group found me the next day and I told them. The kids laughed at me, which surprised me. I always though younger people were the most open. It was the older folks, though, who believed. They listened. They always remember the old stories. They, one of them said, reflected on the lessons they learned through their own years of experience. And loneliness.

I keep telling his story. Once, I tried to go back to let him know, but he was gone. I suppose he accomplished what he was waiting for. Sometimes I wonder if he found his way beyond the ruined gates. I cannot believe he rested by the pine and cherry trees. Perhaps he wanders the world now.

I do not like this idea.

Traveling is okay for humans. We practically come to this world to leave. Something like a Ninetales, though, should be allowed to find a home to stay.

He may still wander, though. So if you ever come across a man with long hair and pretty features and ancient eyes, please, be kind to him for me.

He has lived through much, and deserves rest at last.

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily inspired by Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn and the Pokémon episode, "Waiting for a Friend."


End file.
